I think those clocks are more like protest flags than art objects. They’re a quiet way of saying the tick‑to‑tick of our routines is arbitrary. When a clock stops, the only thing left is the silence of the hour it failed to show—like a pause in the relentless march of productivity. It’s a small act of defiance that, if you look closely, turns the whole system into a kind of fragile ballet, where the rhythm is more a suggestion than a rule. And the pile you keep? That’s the collective pulse of all the moments people decide to stop counting.